The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (16 page)

Several seconds went by. The man was studying him, he could feel it. He tried to remain relaxed, maintaining what he hoped was a disinterested posture, willing his features to remain blank and expressionless, adopting what to all outward appearances was a fixed stare into space.

Sensing rather than seeing the man’s head finally turn in another direction, Holmes now allowed his gaze to focus on him full bore. He still could not make out any distinctive features, for the man had now turned completely away and had his back toward him. He was no workingman, of that Holmes was certain. The fellow carried himself like a soldier, thought Holmes; there was no mistaking the set of those shoulders. But not a common soldier, not one from the ranks,
for despite his mode of dress, his bearing was that of a gentleman. And he seemed to wear the overcoat uncomfortably, as would a man unaccustomed to wearing it. It was the kind of coat that could easily be purloined from a servants’ hall, or taken from a peg in some cheap café or restaurant. Holmes narrowed his eyes; there was little doubt in his mind: The man did not belong, he did not fit. He was not whom he passed himself off as being.

Suddenly Holmes’s view was blocked; he lost sight of the man in the crowd. He moved to one side and craned his neck slightly, but it did no good. He tried edging his way over in the other direction.

Still no good.

He put his glass down and began to sidle toward the front door, making a conscious effort to do so quietly, unobtrusively. It took some doing to maneuver through the packed barroom. Not having little Squint’s advantage of being able to crawl and scamper betwixt and between, he had to worm his way through the thicket of elbows and shoulders that blocked his path. And it was made no easier by the need to do it inconspicuously.

He was managing with some success, had gotten more than halfway to the door, when without warning the crowd parted in front of him and he was startled to find himself barely an arm’s length away from his quarry. And at that very instant the fellow turned and looked him full in the face.

It all happened so quickly, so very quickly that Holmes was taken completely by surprise. And it resulted in an unfortunate blunder on his part: He spun away, spun right away — an automatic, spontaneous reaction, purely involuntary on his part, which no amount of forethought could have prevented. And in the process of turning, he unintentionally jostled someone’s arm — the arm of a man engaged in animated conversation with a neighbor — causing the man’s drink to
slosh over its glass. And that man, a burly, brutish figure, now turned on him angrily.

“‘Ere, ‘oo d’ye t’ink yer shovin’ inta? Ye wasted me bloody grog!”

Holmes peered into the man’s face — he could not help but peer into the man’s face seeing that it was thrust so close to his own — a doughy, pallid, deeply pitted face with a blue-veined nose, blackened teeth, a twisted lip, and eyes that glared into his: Beady rat’s eyes red-rimmed from drink and narrowed into belligerent slits. It did not seem likely that a simple apology would suffice, Holmes considered.

Reacting quickly, he twisted his own features into an insane, ugly glower and emitted a threatening rumble from the back of his throat, a terrifying animal sound. And in an instant the other man found himself confronted by a most menacing-looking character: A mean, dangerous bloke with a maniacal gleam to his eye. Consummate actor that he was, Holmes looked terribly convincing, for the other man now fairly gaped at him, his face filled with hesitation, indecision — with a glimmer of serious heartfelt doubt and reconsideration, of the possibility of reasonableness even. Holmes gave him no time to reconsider further. He pulled some loose coins from his pocket and flung them on a nearby table. “‘Ere!” he growled in his best West India Docks cockney. “Now get out o’ me fuckin’ wa’ay!”

The coins scattered; several eager hands grabbed for them: Holmes, attention now diverted from him momentarily, did not tarry. Quickly he moved toward the exit and, not stopping to look behind him, slammed out through the door, his face still wearing its hideous snarl, as if daring anyone to block his path or impede his progress. But no one would risk interfering with the tall, sullen dockworker with the hair-trigger temper and the lunatic look, and he made his way into the street without further mishap.

Though he was breathing rapidly when he emerged through the
door, and every instinct screamed at him to break and run, he forced himself to maintain a measured step. Without even glancing over his shoulder, he ambled across the narrow street and proceeded to the opposite corner, disappearing around it with a great sigh of relief.

The night was dark; a light, drizzly fog that had fallen over the city earlier in the evening had turned much heavier, becoming what Londoners had taken to calling, with a mixture of brag and trepidation, a “London particular.” Distant streetlights glowed eerily, casting dim sulfurous halos through the mist and doing nothing whatsoever to improve the visibility. The street was empty of both vehicular and pedestrian traffic, and what few sounds there were to be heard seemed distant and muffled. Holmes did not have to distance himself too many steps from the public house before being satisfied that he could no longer be seen by anyone who might have had an interest in his departure. He was certain that no one had followed him.

Crossing over to the other side of the street once again, he cautiously retraced his steps, staying close to the side of the buildings and remaining in deep shadow, the rope-soled shoes that he wore making no sound on the pavement. He stopped when he reached the corner and carefully peered around it. Across the way, on the opposite corner, the diffused glow that came from the pub’s large front window and glass-paneled door washed the glistening cobbles ineffectually. From where he stood he could see the doorway quite plainly but as though through a veil, the haze was that thick. He could also see a short distance down the side street to his left, where he knew a rear exit from the pub let out. Pulling the wide collar of his pea jacket up around his ears, he settled down to wait.

His vigil was not a very long one. Hardly ten minutes had passed before something in the side street suddenly attracted his attention. What it was, he did not know. Whether it was a movement, or a
muffled sound, or a trick of the fog, he could not be certain. There was a tall wooden gate there; that much he knew from an earlier reconnoiter. It led from a small yard where empty crates and beer kegs were stacked, and which the pub’s rear exit emptied into. Though he wasn’t sure, it was possible that what he saw or heard was the movement of the gate.

He resisted the temptation to investigate, but remained where he was in deep shadow, hardly daring to breathe, straining both his eyes and his ears in an effort to catch even the slightest sight or sound. There was definitely something there — a shape, a presence, the loom of a figure just slightly darker than the darkness around it. Or was he imagining it? He strained his eyes even harder. No, it was not his imagination. There was indeed something there.

Holmes pressed his back against the side of the building. It was an unnecessary precaution, he knew; he had the advantage of almost total invisibility, for there was no light behind him to outline his silhouette even faintly, and the shadows in which he stood were all but impenetrable. He had the further advantage given him by immobility. As long as he did not move or make a sound, it was most unlikely his presence would be detected. His only concern now was to make certain that this was indeed his quarry.

Suddenly the front door to the pub flew open and a wider swath of light splashed out onto the street. Three figures reeled through the door in a burst of laughter, paused briefly, and then, arm in arm, stumbled their way down the alley, fortunately in the opposite direction from where Holmes remained hidden. It was only a matter of a brief minute or two before they and the sound of their drunken hilarity were swallowed up in the fog and the street once again became quiet, still — ominously still.

Nothing moved.

Holmes remained motionless, outwardly calm but seething with impatience.

Assuming someone was there at all, was this indeed the man? he wondered. Was this the devil he sought? It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from rushing into the street to seek him out.

Of course he knew he mustn’t. He knew he had to wait. This man would not be caught by ordinary means. He was far too cunning for that.

Oh, he was insane, there was no doubt about that. But there was a method to his madness that transcended the madness itself, defying all human understanding. He was not just any killer, and he was not just any killer who killed with blood lust. He was clever and quick and highly resourceful; he plotted his every move. He was someone who took pleasure not only in the act itself, but in the planning of it, approaching it as an intellectual exercise, or a military one. It only followed that such an individual would want to — no, need to — flaunt his cleverness, prove to the world how truly ingeniously clever he was.

He had never known a man such as this, had never come into contact with someone who not only killed for the pleasure of it, the utter joy of it, but was driven to share that obscene joy with the world.

The note, postmarked London East Central, had arrived at the offices of the Central News Agency in Fleet Street earlier that week. Appropriately, it was written in red ink:

Dear Boss:

I keep on hearing the police have caught me, but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. The joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.

I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work, the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me
and my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job, to write with, but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough, I hope. Ha! Ha!

The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send them to the police, just for jolly, wouldn’t you? Keep this letter back until I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp, I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck,

Yours Truly,

Jack the Ripper
⁴⁷

Abberline had notified him within hours of the letter’s receipt and, with the coercive powers of the Home Office behind him, of course had ordered that it be temporarily withheld from publication. It was one of hundreds, perhaps thousands
⁴⁸
of similar pieces of mail that had poured into Scotland Yard and the newspaper offices, most of them all too obvious hoaxes, others less so but, on closer examination, hoaxes nonetheless. But there was something about this one that gave at least some of the police officials pause. And Holmes had to agree. There were certain features it contained that he found compelling. The first and most obvious was that in an attempt to disguise his handwriting, the author had penned the letter with the hand other than the one he normally used. The man was left-handed, there was no doubt in Holmes’s mind about that.

Then there was the style of his prose, his conspicuous use of street vernacular, improper grammar, and even certain Americanisms such as
boss, fix me, quit
and
right away
. It was all obviously forced, an effort to mislead. He was no American. His use of the word
shan’t
belied that idea, as did the phrase,
I shall clip the lady’s ears off
. An American would
have said,
I will
cut
the lady’s ears off.

And he was not the semi-illiterate he made himself out to be. If anything, he was a well-read individual, and widely read, no doubt with popular American literature on his bookshelf.

Some of the officials dismissed the letter outright, but Holmes wished to reserve judgment. It had the look and feel of being genuine, the smell of being genuine, and while he couldn’t be absolutely certain about it, it struck a responsive chord in some indefinable way. For one thing, the letter displayed a flair for the dramatic, and that fit in nicely with Holmes’s mental profile of the man. And the handwriting, though disguised, was to his practiced eye that of a highly erratic, even disturbed individual with intense, even uncontrollable emotions; it was the product of a chaotic mind, quick to anger, quick to take offense. The overemphasized capitals that he used revealed that he was vain and arrogant and loved being the center of attention. But most important, to Holmes’s way of thinking, the letter told him that its author was not only clever, but considered himself thus. And, if he was indeed the man they sought, decided Holmes, that could be his undoing.
⁴⁹

Jack the Ripper indeed! Most fitting, thought Holmes. And very droll. Somewhat theatrical, but fitting nonetheless.

But was the author of that letter the man he was lying in wait for now? And was that man the killer? These were the questions presently uppermost in his mind. If this was the man, it was obvious he was challenging the police, taunting them, harboring as low an opinion of their skills as Holmes himself did.

Holmes had to admire his audacity. The bait he was dangling was irresistible. He was inviting them to take part in a hunt for the wiliest of all game, and he was offering himself up as the prey. How positively sporting. How sublime.

More time passed, more minutes went by. Still no movement, still no
sound. And still Holmes waited.

Then suddenly a shadow appeared as if from nowhere, and a figure materialized in the middle of the street, tendrils of fog clinging to it, ghostlike and unreal. It was as if an apparition had come through a solid wall, and the suddenness of its appearance, even though Holmes was half expecting it, made him almost start in surprise.

But still he did not move. He dared hardly breathe. He remained rigid in his place of concealment and watched as the figure emerged from the fog and walked slowly down the middle of the street.